


keep a close watch on this heart of mine

by scrapbullet



Series: all these things they will change [6]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bedside Vigils, Caring, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Finale, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 05:07:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11913849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: Illness is as it always is; striking the weak and causing panic. And yet, despite Thomas being the one to go most frequently into the village proper, it is James that becomes sick. And he isn’t exactly the most cooperative of patients.





	keep a close watch on this heart of mine

The nights begin to draw in, laced with a penetrating chill. Autumn encroaches in a such a way as to be wholly innocuous; one day the sun is baking hot, scorching the earth dry and demanding that James travel back and forth to the well to quench their crops thirst, and the next the clouds are heavy cotton hanging low and threatening in the sky, the leaves upon the trees lining the property turning to red and burnished gold.

It means chilly evenings wrapped in a thick blanket, pressed shoulder to shoulder to Thomas as they each read a book, so quiet and comfortable in their shared silence that hours pass quickly by, so entranced in each others company and the fiction in their hands that only the fire burning down to embers signals the late hour.

It means waking long before the dawn to tend to the animals, rubbing tired eyes and yawning widely, to prepare the feed and acquire water. It means cold wash-downs and crisp apples for breakfast, and kissing the sweet dimples at the base of Thomas’ spine, delighting in the ensuing laughter, tumbling down onto the bed.

It means cold, yes, but warmth too, and although it brings memories of childhood winters bitterly freezing, there’s something to be said about wrapping up and staying in once the daily chores are completed, settling in to do more than merely _exist_. 

Peaceful and idyllic; this new life of theirs, and yet, healthy as they have been the past year, neither thought much of the sickness spreading through the village, on which their cottage sits on the outskirts. Thomas, though he spends the odd day here and there teaching the young ones their letters - those too poor, or too old, or too _different_ \- perhaps should have paid more attention. The young and the elderly take ill first, as they are wont to do, overcome with coughing and fever. Bedridden, they refuse food to gain the strength to fight it, and some, that are weaker than most, perish. 

Illness is as it always is; striking the weak and causing panic. And yet, despite Thomas being the one to go most frequently into the village proper, it is James that becomes sick. And he isn’t exactly the most cooperative of patients.

“All I needed was a decent nights’ rest,” James slurs, tongue too thick in his dry mouth. “I feel fine, Thomas, really, there’s no need to be concerned.”

Thomas, sitting at his love’s bedside, cards his fingers through James’ hair. All the better to surreptitiously test his temperature, and to push aside the sweaty strands. “Fine you are _not_ , James. I won’t have you go outside and push yourself beyond your limit. You need rest, and rest is what you shall have.”

Tucked up in bed, his skin ashen but for the ruddy pink of his cheeks, James is trying his best to convince Thomas that he’s perfectly fine, and more than capable of tending to the livestock. But for the glassiness of his eyes and the trembling of his hands, perhaps Thomas would allow him fresh air, but worry threads through his thoughts like a snake in the grass; insidious. James is a stubborn one; he is a red-head after all, and as fiery as the colour suggests. He’ll push himself to the brink and then beyond it, Thomas knows, and make himself all the worse for it.

An elderly man passed in the night, the fever having cooked him from the inside out, a neighbour had informed Thomas an hour previous, when he’d busied himself settling their dairy cow to graze. A man had died, a tragedy to be sure, but all Thomas can think about is James, hot to the touch and turning his nose up at broth, shivering under three wool blankets.

Lord, what would he do without his James? Thomas’ heart twists, and it must show on his face as clear as day, as James takes his hand and links their fingers, thumb stroking a slow, juddering pattern over and over. Comforting Thomas, even now. Even in his sick bed.

James coughs, a dry and wracking thing, to clear a tickle in his throat. His eyes droop, exhaustion plain in every weathered, weary line on his face. “You worry too much, love. It’ll pass.”

Thomas quirks a lip; a half-hearted attempt at levity. “Yes, you’re strong as an ox, darling.”

“And as healthy as one,” James interjects, scowling mightily. “I am _fine_. Go, before the pigs break out and find some poor sap to feast on.” He exhales, slow and steady so as to not aggravate his sore chest. “I’ll stay here. In bed. I even promise to eat some of that wretched broth you made.”

Glaring, affronted, Thomas tucks James’ arm under the covers securely. “My broth is-”

“Palatable, yes.”

Thomas sighs. “ _Palatable,_ I suppose that’s the word for it.” 

“A good cook you are _not_ ,” James murmurs, visibly fighting against the healing sleep he so desperately needs. “But you are an excellent nursemaid.”

Thomas lingers for as long as possible, hovering until James deigns to sip a cup of water and fall asleep, breathing heavily through his nose. It isn’t until their sheep begin to bleat, loud and indignant, that Thomas pulls himself away from his vigil, working through the hefty list of daily chores as quickly and efficiently as he can. 

That he checks in, every now and then, to see how James is doing… well, there’s no-one around - or currently awake - to chastise him, is there? 

* * *

Later, with the work completed - or, rather, as much as can be done by one man plagued by worry - he nudges James awake and, with one shoulder under James’ arm, guides him to the tin tub in the kitchen. The water has long since cooled to a soothing warmth that will, hopefully, feel like bliss against James’ skin, and will do a great deal toward making his love feel better. 

James, of course, is soft and languid; sleep drunk as Thomas undresses him, nuzzling sleepily as Thomas struggles with his small clothes. Although unwell his hands deem it safe to wander; palming Thomas’ backside and squeezing, murmuring appreciatively under his breath. 

“You aren’t being very helpful,” Thomas mutters, feigning irritation. “And very, _very_ naughty.” The wide, calloused span of James’ hands drift down and inward, and, huffing with amusement, Thomas extricates himself from his mischievous lovers hold by dumping him unceremoniously into the tub. 

Water cascades over the stone tiles, but it’s worth it for the look of indignation on James’ face, sopping wet and still clad in his - _Thomas’_ \- shirtsleeves. 

“I see you’re feeling much better, if you’re inclined to feel me up.” Thomas quips, buoyed by James’ answering grin - foxy and indulgent - the green of his eyes clearer after his catnap. 

“Much,” James agrees, flicking water at Thomas like a mischievous school boy. 

Together they wash away the fever sweat, cooling and soothing James’ tired body. Every pass of the cloth over freckled skin is followed by a kiss, until the water grows too cold to stand and, bundled up once more in clean clothes and Thomas’ arms, James succumbs to sleep once more. 

(The broth, too, grows cold in its pot; too salty and congealing, besides. 

Neither really mind. 

Crisp apples in the dimming light are a much better supper, anyway.) 


End file.
